


What Did She Say

by abbykate



Series: Hide and Seek [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John don't know what time it is, M/M, Or who he is, Post-Reichenbach, What day it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbykate/pseuds/abbykate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needed to move, to get up. There was too much static in here, too much overlap.</p><p>A 221B drabble</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Did She Say

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the scheme: Jill decided that she, abbykate, and S.J. Hartsfield should all take lines from Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" and use them as titles for drabbles. They each picked five. They will be posted as a series, in the order in which they fall in the song.

John could see their mouths moving, pushing words out into his general direction, so he knew they were talking to him.  Their eyes were shiny and their eyelashes were clumped together soggy. Their faces were the very definitions of ‘concern’ and ‘pity’ and any other face you’d be likely to make when you couldn’t possibly understand but you’re making the effort to. And, really, what else _could_ they do? They were trying and that’s what mattered. Apparently.

And he tried too. He made eye contact with them, looking but not registering, nodding his head and hearing but not listening. His higher brain function refused to disengage from its current and continuing task of missing Sherlock; playing and replaying his voice, tracing his long strides, mapping the shadows of his hands, injecting his scent into every puff of air John breathed.

He needed to move, to get up. There was too much static in here, too much overlap. Everything was cloudy–he needed out. Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder stinging like it was pressing into fresh stitches. He leaned into the pain and looked up.

Mrs. Hudson’s raw face hung there, eyebrows up, waiting. She’d asked him something, but from his seat here on the couch, here underwater, he couldn’t decipher it; only more Sherlock noise and John’s own bile.


End file.
